


Reason Of Man 1/1

by hnsnrachel



Series: Hillary Clinton/Sarah Palin [3]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hnsnrachel/pseuds/hnsnrachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin celebrate July 4 in an unusual way.    Sequel to Beyond The Edge, which can be found <a href="http://hnsnrachel.dreamwidth.org/96844.html">here.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Reason Of Man 1/1

**Author's Note:**

> For historical roleplay on my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card. [Card here](http://hnsnrachel.dreamwidth.org/81250.html?#cutid1) (all completed squares link to the relevant story). Unbetad. I'm a little uncertain about this one since it's from Palin's perspective, so there's a little self-loathing in there in places. Any and all incorrect usage of words/plain making them up is deliberate, 'cos, hey Sarah Palin is telling this story. The historical roleplay in this one was inspired by this video:

Reason Of Man 1/1

Hillary and I have this, well, I guess it’s a game, going on. Ever since the first time, in her office, we’ve been deadlocked, neither one us able to cast the winning blow… neither one of us able to truly pull away.

I hate everything she stands for. Big government. Equal rights for all those homosexuals running around in the Lower 48. Restrictions of gun ownership rights. Socializing America until freedom no longer exists. And I know that she, in her brainwashed, liberal elitist fashion, hates everything about my beliefs too, as crazy as that is. I don’t understand how protecting the great document that is our constitution can be offensive, but I guess that’s why I’m not a Democrat.

Despite all of that, I can’t resist the inexplainable force that pulls me to her, the way her fingers play my body like guitar strings, picking out a Big & Rich hit. I’m not gay. I have a husband; a man I love, a man who has always made my blood flow south when I look at him, rugged and raw.

Yet…

Since the first time in her office, I’ve never been able to erase Hillary Clinton from my mind. There must be witchcraft at work, and I’m powerless against the spell woven around me.

And, since I can’t change it, I may as well enjoy it when I can.

Irritatingly, it’s difficult to find time for her fingers to sate the throb of desire that arrests me every time I think of her. My body’s remembrance of her touch refudiates any attempt to turn away from her image on the news, my blood singing for her, no matter how I try to burn the feelings away, no matter how often I pull Todd close and take control, riding him until he can take no more, nothing and no one but her seems to satisfy me anymore.

God must have a design for me that I can’t see. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.

We’re busy women, and that doesn’t help my faith that God sets us on a path with no deviations, that it’s impossible to resist what He has planned for you. She’s all over the world, working for the laughable excuse of an administration whose hopey, changey bullhockey is working out exactly how I expected. I’m flying from city to city, rallying common sense conservative to challenge the Washington insiders who’ve lost their way in the media-driven cauldron that is our capital city, supporting women whose Mama Grizzly instincts will chase the status quo from politics if only they can win, being a voice for a silent majority of citizens who are too scared to voice their discontent with the way the president is steering the nation. I suppose both jobs have their value. It’s not like we ever really find the time to talk, either. We barely talk in person. What would we have to say when we’re not in the same room (except things that make me want her touch even more than I usually do)?

When the frustration of too many faked releases, too many half-satisfying climaxes by my own hand, ice-blue eyes filling my fantasies, catches up with me, I can’t help but lash out at her in any way I can find. Sometimes I hate her for what she’s done to me far more than I’ve ever hated her political beliefs. Recently, I’ve discovered that even the words across a thousand miles of probably-bugged phone lines are something I crave, something that reminds me I’m not just losing my mind. One of the things most guaranteed to let me hear her voice, low and disturbingly sexy, so unlike the professional speeches, also lets me distance myself from the urges I hate her for inspiring in me, and strengthens my own voice in my party. It’s almost vital that I say the things I do on podiums in front of crowds of people for that alone… or so I tell myself when I can’t face that the best side-effect of those speeches is the words that caress my body like a touch, reminding me of the depraved desire she most recently introduced me to, the sharp impact of her hand against my skin morphing pain to pleasure, the glorious taste I only experience when my head is buried between her thighs, quieting the voice that tells me how wrong I am on constant loop when I’m not with her.

Sometimes, when I’m not alone, it’s utter torture to hear her suggestions of what she plans to do to me the next time we’re together. But I still prefer being surrounded by people, desperately trying to control my reaction to her voice, knowing that I’m probably failing, having to make ever more stupid excuses, to not hearing her voice at all.

I hate myself for the anticipation that rolls through me, the dampening of my panties at her dulcery tones.

But it doesn’t stop me from booking an engagement in New York on the weekend of July 4 when she suggests she has something special planned.

Perhaps most disturbing of all… I don’t even feel that guilty when I tell my children they can’t come with me, that they’re better staying home with their Dad and enjoying the holiday for what it should be. Not even Todd suspects that I have different plans.

*

The whole plane ride to New York, I’m trying to convince myself that this would be the last time, that my need to feel her touch has to take a back seat to my ultimate presidential ambitions. My body, traitor that it is, is already preparing for her, the image of her head thrown back as my tongue circles her clit running through my brain, my squirming against the seat in an attempt to find much needed friction for the pressure in my core so pronounced that, even in the espacious surrounds of first class, I’m afraid that people will notice. By the time I arrive at the uptown hotel I booked into and stow my luggage in the room I’m almost certain I’ll spend very little time in, I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.

I wish I could pretend that good fortune alone has her staying here too.

I deliberate over making my way straight to her suite, but the shower calls to me first. Even as I convince myself that it’s about my own comfort rather than looking my best for her, I know it’s a lie. And it’s not even a good one.

Under the pounding of the water against my skin, I slide my fingers into the entirely too unrelated wetness between my thighs, desperate to take the edge off my arousal before seeing her. I can’t let her know just how much I want her by exploding the second she touches me. I try to think about Todd, muscles shining in the summer heat as he works out in our backyard. It’s an image that never failed me until Hillary pinned me down against her desk, I’m sure trying to teach me a lesson I’m still not sure I’ve learned. Worse… I don’t think I want to.

As my fingers slip inside my pussy, Todd’s image disappears, replaced by the hunger in her eyes as she hissed angry words against my lips. Though I’m still trying to fight it, forcing my lips around the name of my husband, the movement of my hand is suddenly easier, and I have to accept that, whatever this is, something more powerful than me is definitely at work.

I send a silent prayer up to God that He knows why He’s doing this to me as I come with her name on my lips, shuddering through my climax as I collapse to the floor of the tub, whimpering my way through the aftershocks that rock me.

*

Though the immediate relief is something, an hour later, it hasn’t really helped my worked up state. If anything, it’s just readied me for me, at her hands. As powerful as it was once I let the image of her play across my fantasies, I know the orgasm I gave myself was just a shadow of how I’ll feel once I give myself up to a woman I know I’m supposed to hate.

I pace the room, knowing that she’s sure to know I’m here because she always does, wanting to make her wait long enough that she’ll come looking for me, needing to feel like I have some control over this. Even as I’m moving though, I know I’ll fail. I know I’ll fall against her lips and be grateful for anything she chooses to give me the second I see her. And I know that it will be me who breaches the distance between us.

I even dressed with easy access in mind.

 

My legs are bare, the way I know she likes best, but instead of the shorts I'd really prefer, my skirt was picked out on the theory that, should it come to it – and it likely will – it can be hiked up around my waist. My button down jacket is unfastened, a pop-fastening shirt underneath. I know I look good, but I always do. All I really care about is giving Hillary the access to my body that we both crave.

 

That I _hope_ we both crave. If she's playing me, if this is some kind of plot to destroy my political ambitions before they really get started, her party is going to need to curtain my second amendments rights fast.

 

With a deep groan, my thoughts beginning to scare me, and not for the reasons I'm sure most people would think, I give up. I came all the way here for this, and as much as I hate myself for it... hate her for it... I don't want to waste any more time that could be used to rectifate the starvation from her touch over the long weeks since I last saw her.

 

I'm fucked up. I know I'm fucked up.

 

I just can no longer find it in myself to care.

 

*

 

This hotel is where she always stays when she's in the Big Apple, and she's always in the same room, so I don't have to find out where she is. Which means I don't need to give her advance warning that I'm on my way up to her suite. It's a small victory... but I'll take anything at this point. For far from the first time, I second-guess myself, when I reach the hall outside the room, almost turning straight back into the elevator, thinking that maybe, if I go cold-turkey, I can break this unhealthy addiction to her hands on my body, my tongue rolling against her skin... but my body revolts at the notion, propelled by the familiar throbbing at my core.

 

Once again, I find myself asking God for His guidance. In the last two years, through all of this self-shaking experimenting, the power that Hillary freakin' Clinton yields over me, the idea that He has a path laid out for me and that this is an inavoidable section of that road has been the only thing to keep me sane. Some nights, with Todd sleeping soundly, completely spent, and my own body yearning for something apparently only she can give me now, I've been driven to my knees to pray for His wisdom, for His grace and for His strength. And the only answer I've had is what I have to trust in; my overwhelming desire for the woman behind that door.

 

I wonder what the 'people' who described me as mentally unstable shortly after my vice-presidential run would think if they saw me now. I'm sure they'd have the therapists on speed dial.

 

A deep breath and a sharp knock on the wood, and Hillary is in front of me, looking entirely unsurprised to see me. As her gaze slides smoothly across my body, I need all my self-control to stop from jumping her in the hall. Sure, there's no one in sight, but I know that there could be at any moment. Lost in the hunger just below the cool blue of her eyes, it takes a second for her dress to register. There's nothing unusual about the black pantsuit she's wearing, or the way it hangs across her hips, making my hands itch to cling to them while she works her unnatural magic with the mouth I can't stop thinking about, but the white, ruffled shirt is weird... and annoying, hiding the surprisingly smooth skin of her upper chest from my view.

 

Gaining control of my brain for just a second, I attempt to sneer at her. “What are you wearin'?”

 

She smirks at me, and I don't know if that's because my attempt at pretending even this get up doesn't make my mouth water to taste her has fallen flat, or because she's amused by it, but goddarn it, I want to kiss it off her lips so bad.

 

In case the urge to do just that becomes too much, I step forward, sliding past her as she turns sideways to let me into the suite, biting back a gasp as the brush against her body makes heat settle over me like a heavy film. I glance around the room, confused by the darkness and the candles... Hillary's never tried to seduce me before. Shameful as it may be, she's never needed to. Irregardless, it certainly seems like that's what she's going for this time, the light flickering off the walls, somehow enhancing the click as the door closes behind us, fervent need boiling my blood as I question her once more. “What is this?”

 

She almost prowls towards me, and my mouth is suddenly dryer than a desert at the predatory gleam in her eyes as the candlelight dances across them. I steel myself for her welcome assault, but she steps right past me, pretending she doesn't feel the brush of my skirt against her hand as she trails it over my pelvis, close to the place that's already seeping my desire into the fresh pair of panties that replaced the ones I may have ruined with my inability to stop thinking about what would happen when I got here.

 

Well, now I'm here, and she's almost ignoring me, settling in the chair in front of the desk in the corner of the living area. “Sit down, Sarah,” she murmurs, her voice flat, emotionless, and I wonder if she can teach me that kind of control. I know she wants me as much as I want her, or she wouldn't have started this, wouldn't keep letting it happen, wouldn't keep calling me to her with a silent siren call I'm helpless to resist. I stare at her, unwilling to admit to my confusion, unwilling to just cave to her wishes... at least, the ones that don't have her touching me.

 

I have a problem.

 

When I don't move at her command, she looks up at me, her glare compelling, but despite feeling like a teenage girl with her first crush when she looks at me that way, I stand my ground. I'm a tough lady. I've brought down moose. I have a fucking bear skin in my office. I will not let her see that the thought of her never touching me again that just flitted through my mind actually scares me.

 

I stand there, resisting the power of her stare for a long moment, and when she sighs heavily, I think that maybe, I won this time. Until she speaks, her voice low and smokey, inspiring another rush of wetness between my thighs. “I can always spank you again.”

 

My knees actually shake with the power of the wave of arousal that rushes across me, and it's easy to convince myself that that's why I do as she commands. To think I ever thought this woman was weak for showing her tears. If she's weak, I don't know what I am, and I do know exactly what I am. This is just a short blimp on my record. I have this all under control. I know I'll shake this addiction.

 

When I decide that I want to.

 

Once settled in the chair she points out with those long fingers that I   
_need_  
to feel on my body soon, before I combust, I turn my body to face her, more uncertain than I'd ever admit. Injecting as much venom as I can into my voice, I demand, “Hillary, what are you doing?”

 

“I've had some time to catch up on your stupidity in the last few days.”

 

I bristle at her accusatory tone, “Who do you think you are?”

 

She shakes a finger at me, and it drives my anger even higher, but at her words, I deflate. “Uh uh. If you're not careful, you can go back to your   
_own_  
room.”

 

Grudgingly, even sullenly, I mutter “Sorry.”

 

“That's better.”

 

I glare at her, but stay quiet, listening to the demands of my desire for the woman across the room. I'm less and less certain about so many things with every day that passes, but in this room with her... I know one thing. I want to discover what she has planned. As wrong as it is to trust her, to want her... she's yet to put me through something I don't enjoy, however much I may resist her. And that's never been much. I'm lucky I can justify just about anything if it gets me what I want.

 

As the silence drags by though, I start shifting in the chair, wishing she'd do or say   
_something._  
Anything. She chuckles low in her throat, knowing she has the upper hand I wish I didn't give her so easily. Just as I'm beginning to think about leaving, regaining some of my dignity by depriving us both, she breaks the silence. “I saw you talking to Glenn Beck. For someone who talks so highly of the constitution, you don't seem to know   
_anything_  
about it.”

 

Thinking back to that interview from months ago, I can't puzzle out what she's talking about. I thought I did well in that one. He offered no gotcha questions like that Couric woman. I came out of it without a sense of rage deep within me. I feel like Hillary's trying to catch me out, but I don't know how. It's frustrating. As frustrating as having to suppress my urges when she's not around. Less frustrating than having to force them down   
_now._  
“What are you talkin' about?”

 

Her voice lowers ever further, and when she reaches the crutch of her argument, I think I know why, a shudder running through me. “It's a shame that you don't seem to know who any of us are... all this time slaving over the document you claim to hold so dear, and you don't know any of us framers but Washington.”

 

The picture she's painting begins to slot into place. The candles, the darkness, the strangely puritan note of her clothing. She's playing yet another game... one I'm more than willing to follow through on.”

 

“Are you Jefferson?”

 

She shakes her head, “I should be pleased you learned another name, but woman, please. I'm James Madison, the   
_Father_  
of the very document I have before me.” She waves the papers from the desk in my direction, retreating fully into character as she stands, her walk somehow more deliberate, and I'd have never guessed, never even dreamed that she could be such an acknowledgeable actor. The potential this opens up before us rockets through me, new fantasies layering across the old ones.

 

She reaches out toward me as she comes closer, and I stand, knowing I've done the wrong thing the second I do it. I'm so damn glad I'm not gay as she steps back out of reach, sighing heavily as she points back at the chair. “Stay sitting until I say otherwise. A woman should always show deference in front of her betters.” She winces as she says it, indicator of the woman beneath who I know is a feminist of an almost scary scale, but she shakes it off, holding her character as best she can with the distaste I'm sure is in the back of her throat at the patriorical words.

 

It's a surprise to me how damn hot her act is though, how much I wish it was true so that I could be committing just one sin, rather than my shameful ceding to her control. I know I find her power attractive, even when she yields it over me. Especially then.

 

I sink back into the chair, arousal uncoiling in my stomach as I lower my head, finally knowing what it is she wants from me. “Yes, sir.”

 

The corner of her mouth quirks up in a small smile. “Take these, Sarah. It is most imperative that they are understandable by the most stupid of men. Perhaps if you can explain them, I'll know that they shall be.”

 

Even as I know that her accusation of stupidity is part the woman beneath the cloak she's drawn around her, I'm willing to pretend otherwise, knowing that this is leading to what I want, maybe something I've wanted since the first time that she touched me, if I play my part well enough. With a sharp nod, she turns away from me, and I couldn't keep my eyes on the papers she's handed me if I tried. I don't even try, caressing her ass with my gaze. Even with the usual gentle sway that works into her demanding walk missing, I can't stop myself from wanting to dig my fingers into her flesh and pull her closer to my waiting mouth.

 

I really hope she doesn't keep this game going much longer. I'm not sure if I could take it.

 

Glancing back over her shoulder, I know she caught me staring when she commands, “Read. Maybe if you're good, I'll reward you.”

 

Scanning through the text that's more familiar to me than she'd ever believe, I feel her watching me, and it's all I can do not to catch her gaze, to try and distract her from what she's clearly planned. I don't know what's wrong with me. There are so many levels here I'd find issue with were she anyone else, but with Hillary, something just comes over me. I wish I could claim that I don't know if I like it, but the very fact that I flew across the country to be here says otherwise, and I know it.

 

I give her time to explore me with her eyes. I know she's doing it. I know she'll be focused on the length of my legs for a long time if I let her, and I don't spend all that time running   
_just_  
because I enjoy it. It feels good for someone other than Todd to truly appreciate the effort I put in. It feels good that it's   
_her_  
who appreciates it. And a devious part of my mind also feels good that she's given me ammunition that could bring her tumbling from her perch at the top of the Washington food chain, even if I know I could never use it unless I was willing to expose myself to the same treatment. I get enough of that derision as it is though, so I'm not going to invite more, even if the partisan part of me longs to see perhaps the most powerful person in the opposition face down in the dirt.

 

After I've turned to the last page of the print out, I look back up at her, reveling in the way she's looking at me as though she can't wait to have her way with me, hoping that she isn't going to try and trip me up with her questions, wanting to get this over and done with so we can get to the good stuff.

 

“Did you finish reading?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She stands once more from her chair, her gaze rolling across me, heating my body every time I see her pause, her eyes clearly darkening even in the subdued lighting in the room. “So you won't mind if I ask you some simple questions, to see if you truly... comprehend the importance of what you hold in your hands.”

 

It's not a question, but I answer anyway, trying to sound smaller than I truly am, trying to give her what she wants so I can get what I need. “No.”

 

“Good.” The words are almost purred, dripping sensuality even in her guise as someone she most definitely is not. “Sarah... what does the constitution – that's what we're going to call it – what does it say the Vice-President does.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “You should know this after your... grave misstep two years ago.”

 

I feel the flush of irritation rising in my cheeks even as I struggle to resist the temptation to cut our play short. With her looking so magnetic, and appealing, it's hard to concentrate on what I   
_did_  
learn after half the country laughed at me for what was essentially a right answer, expressed wrongly. “Breaks any ties in the Senate.”

 

She takes a step closer, coming almost within my reach, musing, “Maybe that one was too simple... is the process for changing the constitution clear to you?”

 

“I've always known that one. You're misunderestimating me.” I know it's breaking character, know it may get me in trouble, but she's treating me like an idiot, and I'm not dumb. I may not always express myself without fault, but that doesn't make me stupid.

 

She retreats, taking back the step she took towards me, and I almost whine from the extra space, the extra distance from what we're here for. Her tone is almost painfully calm when she responds. “You'd do better just to answer my questions. There is a point to this.” She keeps it in character, but I can see the struggle to do so flooding across her face.

 

I wonder if I'm getting to her the way she's getting to me.

 

I push again, unable to resist it. “You clearly want to be asking me about the amendments, so why don't you just do that?”

 

She shakes her head slightly, a small, almost fond smile creeping onto her lips for a second, “I   
_suppose_  
that's answering my question”

 

I can't hold back the small cheer in the back of my mind as she regains that step she drew back from me just seconds ago.

 

I know I've lost my way in so many respects, but I can't bring myself to care.

 

“Sarah... what is the first amendment about? What's it _really_ about?”

 

I frown just a little, wondering where the catch in this question is. “Freedom of religion.”

 

Another step forward confirms what I already know, that I'm right. “Do you realize that we put that there so   
_God_  
would play no part in the politics of this nation? So that the country could be free of religious ideology in its highest offices?”

 

“This is a religious country!” I understand what she's saying, but I believe that my beliefs do mesh with our constitutional rights, rights that people like my son fight and are willing to die for, rights that every American holds as dear as I hold my relationship with God, even if I sometimes find myself wondering if He's forsaken me as I sink deeper into what I've always thought was depraving behavior. At least I understand that now, even if I couldn't possibly ever publicly give words to it, that sometimes, you have no choice, you can't control what you need, the things that pull you to people that turn you away from the loving light of God... a light that I still believe shines on me, a love that I feel pushing me towards whatever lesson it is I'm supposed to learn from this ratcheting of my desire. Maybe it is just that... that God doesn't judge people because of who they... want.

 

“People in this country are free to _have_ religion. But they don't have to.”

 

“That's their loss.”

 

“Maybe. But we can't legislate based on something that not all people believe. That's the first amendment.”

 

“It means I'm free to think that God is guiding us though.”

 

Hillary inclines her head, conceding the point, and I feel unexplainably proud, “Do you understand my point, despite that?”

 

“Yes! You're saying that God doesn't dictate our laws. And I know that! I don't tell people how to live their lives! I just know that my life is brighter because I have faith!”

 

“As long as you understand that the constitution doesn't make America a theocracy. It is intended, in fact, to do just the opposite. We fled religious persecution, dear girl, we _certainly_ don't want to inspire that in our citizens.”

 

I nod, biting back a sharp retort about other things the United States is not, things she's helping perpetuate with her participation in Obama's socialist agenda, knowing that it's worth it when she comes closer still, closing the still too large gap between us just slightly.

 

I wish she'd hurry up with this. Roleplay can be fun, I do get that, but I know it would be much more inspiring had this night started the way they usually do. Short, barely there conversation followed by frantic fucking that silences my doubts. I   
_want_  
her, but I'm afraid that, if she leaves it too long, my head will override the overwhelming need that's still seeping from me at her very presence, even as my irritation with being made to wait for what I came here for grows. Even though I know I would regret it tomorrow if I left here without her drawing needy moans from my throat. I don't know how long it could be before we have this chance again. And every second that passes without her fingers burying deep within me is a second wasted.

 

When she seems satisfied that I'm not going to argue against her, she continues, words still heavy with her impersonating of Madison. “Can you tell me what the fourteenth amendment states? It's another one I doubt you know.”

 

I do know actually, have had it shoved down my throat by the elitist media after every driven-by-her absence speech, but I'm sick of this game. I want what I came here for. As fun as this has been – at points – I may die if I don't feel her pressed against me soon, cutting off the growing guilt at the way I'm here with her instead of home with the husband who no longer makes my heart race like crazy. “Isn't that a little beyond your preview?”

 

She winces at something that must be in her head, her hair bobbing a little as she shakes it as though to clear whatever thought just occurred. I don't know if the lack of contact between us is as frustrating to her as it is to me, or if it's something else that allows her to slide a little out of character for a second, allows her to move towards me, her voice a little less stilted. “Well, knowing that is impressive. For you.”

 

I ignore the little dig at the end, just wanting to bring an end to the portion of the evening that doesn't have us wrapped around each other, drowning in whatever it is that draws us together, time and time again. I twitch slightly in my seat, my muscles tensing, awaiting her signal, my hands clenching into the arms of the chair to stop myself from moving before she gives the okay,annoyed with my own surrender but not willing to let her drag this out any longer by darting away again.

 

She stops barely a breath away from where I would be if I stood, her head tilted slightly. “Well.”

 

I don't need to be asked twice.

 

When her lips   
_finally_  
touch mine, I can't help but sigh into the contact, pressing closer, wrapping my arms around her, tangling my fingers into her hair, pressing my tongue between the softness against my mouth, moaning into her as my tongue strokes against hers. We break for a second, Hillary sliding my glasses from my face almost tenderly before she dives in for another kiss, tugging at my hair almost painfully until I open my mouth to her, moaning as her tongue slips into my mouth, the kiss rough and wanting.

 

Lost in the feel of her, the strength of her kiss, the gentle, insistent probing of her tongue against mine, the duel for domination that I barely care about winning as long as she keeps touching me, my hands fall from her hair, travel across her body, frustrated by the layers of fabric that keep my hands away from her skin, the ruffles that stop me from feeling the peaks and valleys of her dangerously soft breasts. Sliding my palms across her stomach, letting them slip low, I groan as she pops the fastenings on my shirt, her hands warm on the skin of my stomach, my muscles jumping beneath her touch.

 

And then I freeze.

 

There's something hard beneath her pants, and maybe her stiffened walk wasn't all her acting skills, maybe it was this, the long, hard length of something I've never shared with another person. I'm sure Todd knows that I own them, and I've been turning more and more to them as I try to sate the hunger for the woman whose hands are still transversing my body, even as I feel her smirk against my lips, but I never expected, never thought that this is what she planned, that I would love the idea as much as I evidently do as fire rolls under my skin, a surge of wet heat escaping my panties and coating my thighs as I let my fingers play across the plastic. “Fuck” I can't help the curse that falls from my lips, can't think of anything but letting her use it on me, making her use it on me as soon as possible.

 

My fingers fumble with her pants, finally wrapping around the zipper as her hands squeeze my breasts, shoving the bra above them. I hiss as her fingers find my nipples, bite her lip as she rolls them between fingers and thumbs. I groan her name, sinking into the sensation, feeling dirty in the best possible way as one of her hands trails away from my breast, pushing my skirt up above my hips, her groan music to my ears as she feels just how ready I am for her, for this. She turns us, stepping back, chuckling as I refuse to let an extra inch open up between our bodies, chasing her back until the chair I wanted out of so badly nudges the back of her legs and she stops moving.

 

Then she sits, and I don't even have to think about it as I straddle her, capturing her lips in a searing kiss, feeling more powerful than she's ever let me be before as I lean above her, one hand grappling with the flouncing shirt she's wearing, trying to reach more skin, the other sliding up and down the smooth length of the dildo that seems to be pressing against her pussy if the soft groans escaping around our fused lips are any indication.

 

Her fingers push my panties aside, and we both groan as one finally sinks into the source of my arousal, a second joining it within moments, scissoring slightly inside me, stretching me, pulling a litany of moans from my throat that are swallowed up by her lips. I rock against her hand, feeling the building pressure of weeks without her touch, my lust clouding my brain more than mist clouds the mountains of my homeland in the winter. Somehow, in a way that would be disturbing were I able to really form thoughts right now, this feels more beautiful than that.

 

I chase her hand with my hips as she pulls away, feeling the tip of the strap on against my hypersensitive sex as she wraps her hand around it, using my own juices to lubricate and warm the plastic. I appreciate her warming it, but I don't think the lubrication is needed. I'm more than slick enough, more than ready enough to have it buried inside me. I roll my hips, feeling the plastic brush across my clit, crying out and breaking our kiss as my head rolls back on my neck. I try to thrust down, to impale myself on the unnatural protrusion that feels so right while I'm in her arms, like everything else we've done together. She shifts her hips not letting me feel this phantom her buried inside of me, the length of the plastic sliding over my pelvis. She murmurs, “Not yet,” her voice low and husky the way it is when she calls me from thousands of miles away just to drive me crazy, to ramp up the desire that always simmers below the surface, no matter what I'm doing, ever since she kissed me that first time.

 

I force my head, heavy with arousal, to tilt down so I can look into hooded eyes, her pupils large and ringed with a narrow halo of ocean blue, amusement within them as I squirm in her lap, pressing myself against her thigh, soaking her pants with my heated desire, knowing I sound pathetic when I whimper “Why?”

 

She laughs again, enjoying this far too much, slipping her hand back between my legs. If it were possible, I'd widen them further, eager to feel any part of her, anything she wants to give me. Gathering my arousal on her fingers, touching none of the places I need her most, she draws her hand away, bringing it to my lips. “Have you ever done this?”

 

Unsure what she's referring to, I open my mouth to respond, only to find that I can't because her finger slips inside, flooding my mouth with the taste of my own arousal, similar and yet different to the taste of her that I yearn for. Closing my lips around her finger, sucking gently, rolling my tongue across the digit, I smile inwardly as it's her turn to moan, a low sound that echoes through me. She withdraws her finger, tugging at my hair as she pulls me down into a kiss that lacks finesse on both our parts, made up for with eager enthusiasm.

 

Both her hands come to rest on my hips as she moves us into position, and then one leaves my body, and I know without looking that she's wrapping it around the large toy. She applies light pressure on my hips, and I sink down, filling myself with the extension of her. We both moan heavily as I lower myself onto it, her hand brushing against the sensitive nub that throbs for attention as she draws herself away, leaving me suspended above her, connected to her through artificial means. I thrust my hips against her, our moans combining in the air and twisting around one another as both her hands rise to fondle my breasts, thumbs rolling across the hard peaks of my nipples, pulling yet more throaty cries from somewhere deep inside me.

 

It takes a second, but we soon find a steady rhythm, one that becomes more and more urgent as heat spreads through my limbs, as we both moan and groan at the feeling of the dildo rocking against and inside both our bodies. My head rolls back once more, and I whimper desperately as warm wetness wraps around one of my nipples, my hands fighting with her shirt once more, finally getting it open, feeling her skin warm against my palm as I cup a heavy breast and, once more, sounds of pleasure rip from both our chests. My thrusts against her, her counter thrusts, speed up, losing some of the rhythm but I don't care. I can't care as the fingers of her free hand draws ever-tightening circles around my clit, as Hillary angles her hips just slightly, the change pressing the end of the dildo against the spot inside of me that makes me scream, makes me shudder, pleasure building within me until with one final roll of her fingers, one final thrust, the pressure breaks over me, pleasure rolling through my body in powerful waves, my muscles turning to rubber as I call out to God, to anyone who's listening, Hillary's name on my lips once more, hearing my own echoed as I thrust down one last time, pushing the other end of the hard plastic against her core.

 

I collapse against her, panting heavily, fighting with my body as I try to breath, my heart racing, blood pounding through my body. My hand moves across her skin of it's own volition, lacking any of the power it would normally have, but eager to keep the sparks of arousal traveling across her skin. I breathe deeply against her neck, too exhausted to move, kissing her throat heatedly as I recover from the climax that I'd swear was almost good enough to kill me from an overdose of overwhelming pleasure. She's panting heavily too, and I've never felt so proud of achieving something as small as simultaneous release.

 

As I breath her in, the hot, heavy, musky scent of her overcoming me, inspiring a new flood of warmth to replace the tension that's just been sated, I realize that I'm so screwed. So, so screwed.


End file.
